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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25554946">The Ecstasy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/permanentlyreverential/pseuds/permanentlyreverential'>permanentlyreverential</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Azriel needs a hug, Bad Science, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Mates, Slow Burn, eventual actual healthy relationships with genuine communication, i am not a blacksmith so dont @ me, the teeniest bit of spice if you look closely</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:28:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,082</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25554946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/permanentlyreverential/pseuds/permanentlyreverential</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys' banning of wing-clipping has been ignored by the far-flung warcamps of the Illyrian Steppes.<br/>When clipped females begin to fly once again, the Inner Circle is sent reeling.<br/>Azriel, for all his whispers and sly dealings, can't seem to get a hold of the figure responsible. Who is she, and why does she haunt his dreams?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Azriel (ACoTaR)/Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Dream</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice<br/>To make dreams truths, and fables histories;<br/>Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best,<br/>Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.</p><p>-"The Dream," John Donne</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s not often that his shadows surprise him. He’s been a spymaster for long enough that it’s rare that any new information truly takes him by surprise. Hard, especially, when he can hear the way shadows roil and whisper and plot. This, though, has him standing abruptly, wings shifting.</p><p>Rhys and Feyre look up from the maps they had been poring over, concern on their faces. Mor’s brows crease and the whetstone in Cassian’s hand stills. Amren only smiles, continuing to sip at a goblet of wine.</p><p>“There are clipped Illyrian females flying with metal in their wings.”</p><p>Feyre stands a heartbeat before Rhys does, chairs scraping loudly against the floor of the war room. They both open their mouths, but Rhys beats her to the punch.</p><p>“Explain, Az.”</p><p>Azriel is only half listening, mind focused on the quicksilver shadows dancing at his ears.</p><p>“There are reports of half a dozen or so Illyrian females with clipped wings. They’ve been flying on the northern edge of the Steppes, near the Beqaa river. Clumsy flights – they took out half a dozen camphor trees being harvested by locals. Reports are inconclusive at best, but,” he pauses to listen, eyes cast to the side as more shadows coil at his clavicle. “They claim their wings were laced with a kind of pale gold, electrum, maybe, visible clipping scars, and they had… Stones at the base of their necks.”</p><p>A heavy clatter as the whetstone drops to the floor. Cassian doesn’t seem to notice it. None of them do.</p><p>“What does this mean, Az?” Mor’s voice is tight, eyes flicking between the Illyrians. Amren has placed her goblet back on the table before her and is watching Azriel carefully.</p><p>Azriel looks to Rhys, feels his jaw tighten and his throat constrict. He hates this, feels the insidious flicker of doubt in his chest.</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>**</p><p>It takes him nine days to find any leads. War lords in the area are protesting the loss of their females, but they fall silent at a look from Rhys and Cassian. Clipping is, after all, illegal, regardless of how the far-flung war-camps behave. The females began disappearing six months ago, one or two at a time. They come from three rival camps, none of whom were eager to share word of their losses with one another. One or two females was a loss and an inconvenience when it came to divvying up camp maintenance, yes, but nothing the warlords would deem important enough to bother their most important High Lord or their highly respected General with. All the females were young, under a century, with no children of their own, and they had not regularly worked together within their respective camps.</p><p>All told, seven females had absconded in the middle of the night, during changes of the camp guards. All those who knew them were unconcerned, chalking their disappearances up to unfortunate accidents that were all too common in the harsh Illyrian steppes. None had known them well enough to speak to any links outside of the war camps.</p><p>Rhys wants word of the golden wings kept quiet – it is unlikely any warlord willing to clip a female would react well to word of a half-dozen of them flying. Cassian spends the trip with clenched jaw and fist. There will be time for punishment, for disobeying Rhys’ banning of clipping, later. Now, they need more information.</p><p>No Siphons are missing, the war lords affirm, defensive against the accusation of any negligence. They keep them carefully guarded to ensure that Siphons don’t end up in the wrong hands. He ignores the pointed but fleeting look at the seven Siphons adorning his and Cassian’s armor.</p><p>All told, inconclusive. The war lords know nothing of much worth, too busy clamoring for the return of their females and cowering away from Cassian’s glares, and Azriel is left to ply his network.</p><p>**</p><p>No further news from the small villages that farm at the base of the steppes. No more accidents in trees. No more Illyrian females stealing away from camps. Nothing.</p><p>Azriel feels the frustration growing at the base of his neck, feels the creak as his jaw tightens. He can’t <em>find </em>anything. He begins to dream of gold-plated wings and a hand dipped in electrum. He spends his waking hours sparring with Cassian and Rhys. Even Elain’s gentle pleas to take a break and come see her new garden aren’t enough to distract him. Lucien’s friend in the Dawn Court pleads ignorance in a letter, cautioning against anyone mad enough to work with electrum. Amren’s trove doesn’t contain a lick of electrum, and for all her hoarding of pretty, crafted things, she can’t recall word of anyone working with the metal.</p><p>Rhys is relentless as he asks for news, barely tempered by Feyre’s insistence that Azriel is working as quickly as he can.</p><p>More dreams. A side-long glance from a pretty face he inevitably forgets, a half-cocked smile, a flash of sun rising over the steppes, a glade of trees, and he’s awake in a cold sweat.</p><p>**</p><p>Grace comes a week later in the form of a tavern keeper at the coastal edge of the steppes. A Selkie, her name is Mal. A riot of silver curls, half-lidded green eyes, and a wicked smile that promises excitement are tempered by dangerously sharp incisors and fingers tipped with talons and ever so slightly webbed. Her skin reflects grey in the dim light of the crowded tavern and moisture gleams at her temples and the crook of her elbows. Her voice drifts out from her in eddies that leave her patrons dizzily leaning closer to the bar.</p><p>“Oh, aye, I’ve heard of those females flyin’ about.” Her hands are sure as they pour Azriel a drink, and her eyes are slow as they roam over the breadth of his chest. A more perfunctory glance at his wings. “Wings far prettier than yours, though.” His drink comes with a smirk. He returns it carefully with a quirk of his own lips.</p><p>“How so?” Triple-distilled peach brandy that sets his teeth abuzz. He’d ordered wine, but it seems clear that Mal has other intentions. He pushes away shadows that flicker at his wrists.</p><p>“Well, on account of them being flaked in gold.” A purr as she leans forward. “I do love pretty things.”</p><p>He feels the sigh in his chest but suppresses it. He’d hoped this would be easy.</p><p>“They do sound lovely.” He shoots a glance towards her that he ensures is heated enough to keep her pliable and he leans toward the bar. “I’d love it if you told me more.”</p><p>She lets out a laugh that stops an inch shy of propriety, for all of its roughness and rasp. “I’m sure y’a’d love it, indeed. Well, I suppose I’m feelin’ charitable tonight. Two of them came round the other night, ‘bout a fortnight ago, and they said they were headin’ out for a few rough nights. Had packs filled with supplies. One of ‘em smelled like she’d rolled in a pile of medicine, all sharp like. Weren’t too keen to spend much time here, but they stopped in for a drink before leavin’.” A glance at Azriel, and a hand to forestall the question dancing on his palate. “Didn’t say where they was headin’.”</p><p>He smiles ruefully at that before taking another sip of his drink. A yell from across the bar has Mal sauntering away from him, leaving Azriel to contemplate this latest bit of information. The crash into the camphor trees had not been fatal, at least. Mild enough that the female had been able to go for a supply run. The peach brandy is comfortingly warm on his tongue and he finds himself sinking gleefully into the patterns of risk assessment and planning useful to any half-decent spymaster, tracing the grain of the wooden counter with a finger and identifying possible routes that would require the group of females to pass through this far-flung corner of the Night Court.</p><p>He makes up his mind as Mal comes back to his corner of her bar, levelling a smile at her that has, for all its hidden and shadowy alcoves, never once failed him. “With a keen eye like yours, you wouldn’t happen to know what kind of metal was on their wings, would you?”</p><p>She laughs and gives him a blatantly amused look. “Keen eye of mine is quite good at pickin’ up on pretty things. And pretty things like that are electrum. Clear as day.” At that, Azriel’s brows arch. Electrum is hardly a commonly used metal in these parts, for all that there are veins of it throughout the Illyrian mountains. The metal is finicky and prone to react badly to any kind of attempts to tame its innate magic. Mal isn’t done, though. “I’d know electrum anywhere. Lugh’s got an eye made of it.”</p><p>“Lugh?”</p><p>“Aye. Owns the forge in the next village over – he comes by to trade his funny little creations. That eye of his wanders, too, and it’s electrum.” She smirks proudly at that and accompanies it with a careful twist of her waist. Azriel carefully lets his gaze wander over the delicate curve it makes of her hips. The smirk becomes an appreciative smile.</p><p>There are, he supposes, worse ways to spend a night.</p><p>**</p><p>Cassian joins him on the next leg of investigation, claiming he doesn’t trust his brother not to seduce the old smith. Azriel’s long-standing sigh only serves to send Cassian into riotous laughs. It had, perhaps, been a mistake to mention <em>how</em>, precisely, he’d learned of Lugh and his electrum eye. At a look at the red-brick shop, tucked into a corner of the village’s main intersection, Cassian opts to stay outside and check for any potential alternative exits.</p><p>There’s a chime from above the door and a hasty shuffling of papers as Azriel pushes into the small shop. His nose itches. Smoke, the heavy smell of iron, and something a hint more medicinal. His eyes adjust to the gloom – there isn’t much in the way of light. A quick glance shows a counter at the far-left corner of the shop, a narrow doorway off to the right of it, and a conspicuous lack of anything for sale.</p><p>A stocky male is perched behind the counter, surreptitiously refiling a stack of worn parchment. He has skin of ruddy, textured bronze, a shock of silver hair and a matching beard, and fingers with an extra knuckle. A Satyr, then. This must be Lugh. A polite smile sits perched precariously on his gaunt face. His right eye is filled with pale gold, close enough in design to Lucien’s to give Azriel pause. That eye whirrs down and back up, tracking the shadows that slither out of the corners. Shoulders tense.</p><p>“How can I help you?”</p><p>Azriel exhales, squaring his shoulders against the brusqueness of Lugh’s tone. Rhys, after all, wants this quiet and friendly. <em>Should have brought Mor for the friendly.</em> Too sharp of a thought, though, and he shelves it. This needs to be finished quickly. A wry smile from Azriel. The guarded expression on the shopkeeper’s face is to be expected, though. Mal had noted that Lugh’s shop worked by word of mouth, given the less-than-legal nature of some of his merchandise. When Azriel had pressed, she’d only laughed and winked at him, claiming that Lugh liked burning certain minerals. She’d refused to divulge more, despite Azriel’s best efforts.</p><p>“Are you the owner of this shop?” Azriel strides closer to the desk, noting the way the shopkeeper’s fingers tense.</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“I’m looking for a smith to commission a project.” Talk of business, to begin the conversation.</p><p>“And what project would that be?”</p><p>“I’d like something pretty made of electrum for a friend. She’s a bit of a firedrake when it comes to nice things.” An apology to Amren in the back of his mind, and a reminder to hint at Rhys that Amren’s horde might need expansion.</p><p>“You’re better off going to a jeweller, then. I don’t work with electrum. Too noisy. And I don’t make trinkets.” Lugh’s interest is gone, and he’s back to shuffling parchment.</p><p>“Any jewellers you know who <em>do</em> work with electrum, then? Or maybe another smith?”</p><p>A snort. “Who the fuck would be daft enough to work with that Cauldron-cursed metal? It’s too loud, too temperamental. You need half a dozen spells on your forge to even get it to melt properly, and another half dozen on your tools to force it into a shape beyond what it wants. Not worth the effort.” A curious look is levelled his way. “Why you so interested in it?”</p><p>“My friend is quite particular with what she wears. She has quite the collection, and won’t settle for anything that isn’t new to her.”</p><p>Another snort, more derisive. “You’re better off getting her something else, then. Something she’d enjoy more than a bit of finicky metal that won’t do much more than fuck about with any magic she wants doing.” A gleam in his eye. “I’ve got a few items that she might enjoy more, if that’s something you think she’d prefer.”</p><p>Azriel ignores the implication, remembering Mal’s laugh and airy comments about less-than-legalities. This eye is the closest to a lead he has. Azriel tries his best to school his features into softness. “Where did you get your eye?”</p><p>A raucous cough of a laugh. “I got my eyes from my mother, if you must know. Nose is all da’, though. Want to know about the rest of me?” The shopkeeper is now leaning away from Azriel, hands pressed flat against the counter.</p><p>“Your right eye isn’t your mother’s though, is it?” Nuala or Cerridwen should have come here instead, he thinks. Maybe that’ll be the next attempt, if this one fails.</p><p>Another laugh, dirtier than the last, and the shopkeeper is leaning closer to Azriel, that leer splitting his face. “What’s got you so interested in my eyes, Illyrian?”</p><p>“I’ve never seen an eye like that, and I’m curious.” His voice comes out soft and low. Lugh’s back straightens, his eyes narrow, and even from here, Azriel can notice the way his stance shifts. Lugh is angling himself towards the passage next to the counter, and his left hand begins to creep under the counter. A shadow whispers word of a knife strapped within Lugh’s reach.</p><p>“I’m sure you are. But like I said, I don’t work with electrum, and I don’t make jewelry. If that’s all your interested in, go off going somewhere else.”</p><p>“Perhaps another time.” This conversation isn’t going anywhere, not with the shopkeeper’s hackles up like this. He’ll send in a softer touch, then. Azriel only smiles in response to the shopkeeper before nodding. The door chimes behind him.</p><p>**</p><p>Cassian is waiting across the street, hands in pockets and face turned to the bright sun as he leans against the warmed brick wall of a bakery.</p><p>“Get him to spill?” An arrogant yawn and a stretch. Cassian runs a hand through his hair, casually ruffling it before shooting a meaningful glance at the bakery’s window.</p><p>A long suffering sigh as Azriel follows Cassian’s gaze. “Not yet. And I doubt Rhys would accept a cake in place of information.”  </p><p>“You’re losing your touch, Az.” A cocky grin splits Cassian’s face. “Did you see the female inside? The one looking at loaves of bread.”</p><p>Azriel frowns, sidestepping Cassian to peer more closely inside the shopfront window. There are wall to ceiling racks filled with baskets overflowing with various shapes of pastry. The row of racks closest to the window is, in fact, currently occupied by a woman carefully comparing two round loaves of bread. Pretty enough, with auburn hair pulled negligently back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck and sharply pointed ears. Azriel feels the blood rush to his ears, hears his breath stop.</p><p>Her left hand is laced with pale gold.</p><p>He watches as she uses that hand to place a loaf in the raffia basket she carries, then traces the curve of her spine as she walks to the counter at the back of the room. A quick, jovial exchange with the old female manning the shop and then she’s walking towards them, eyes downcast.</p><p><em>Worthless. Distracted. </em>He feels his mind whisper to shadows, and they spill like quicksilver over his shoulders. Cassian’s look is a sharp one, but Azriel ignores it in favour of the female walking stepping out of the door.</p><p>Cassian, light on his feet, delicately places his shoulder in her path. They collide and she looks up, an apology half out of her mouth before her gaze brushes over the Illyrian’s wings. She coughs.</p><p>“Sorry about that, ma’am.” Cassian drawls, a hand reaching out to steady her as she sways precariously. She’s a foot shorter than Cassian, delicate in a pretty green slip of gold-embroidered silk. The flowers creeping up her hem match the light dancing off her left hand. It tightens into a fist.</p><p>“Of course, my apologies. I should have been more careful.” A tight smile, a meaningful roll of the shoulder out from under Cassian’s hand, and she’s off, tucking the basket close to her body.</p><p>“Wait! At least let me buy you a drink to apologize. I shouldn’t stand so close to doorways, what with people walking in and out of them all the time.” Cassian is all loose confidence and brash, strolling purposely after her, letting Azriel fall three steps behind him. She quickens her pace, though, shooting a tense smile over her shoulder. Her eyes shoot a sharp glance at the polished and sharpened talons that adorn the tops of Cassian’s wings. She ignores Azriel completely, who is carefully studying her. Something about her face is familiar, maybe a figment of half remembered dreams.</p><p>“No need!” Her voice is higher now, thready. “No one was harmed and I’m running late for a meeting. Sorry for walking into you!” Faster, now, aiming for a crowd of Brownies chatting animatedly as they walk. A sharp pivot on her heel and she’s disappeared among them. She doesn’t look down, doesn’t notice the way her shadow darkens. Azriel ignores the familiarity clenching at the base of his spine – time to dissect that later. For now, a lead.</p><p>Azriel’s hand grips Cassian’s elbow lightly.</p><p>“I can find her.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Lecture Upon the Shadow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Walking here, two shadows went<br/>Along with us, which we ourselves produc'd.<br/>But, now the sun is just above our head,<br/>         We do those shadows tread,<br/>         And to brave clearness all things are reduc'd. <br/>- "A Lecture Upon the Shadow," John Donne</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Azriel’s shadows follow her seven kilometers out of the village, nipping at her heels as she makes her way into the forest’s edge. She moves quickly, gracefully avoiding called greetings from villagers. They all step out of her way before she needs to push past them. He makes note of their reaction and the ease with which they bow out of her path. Worth further examination, later. Agents will be sent in to gather information, once he makes contact with her.</p><p>He and Cassian follow behind her, a few klicks away, in the air. Cassian, for all his bulk, is as silent as he is, both far too aware of the pressures put on them to find her. Rhys, for all his patience, will not take well to another setback. Azriel sets this aside, ignores the roiling in his guts. The wind brushing delicate fingers against his wings and tracing lines in his hair is a far more interesting sensation. A furrowed brow and a sharpening of his focus has him banking left to follow the female as she makes her way through the forest scrub at the base of the steppes. She’s moving just as quickly here as she did in the village. <em>Curious. </em>His spies hadn’t reported any trails beyond small desire paths carved out by some animals and small, wild Fae. None of them, he knew, began at the edge of the forest; they wandered between sources of water, food, and safe dens for sleeping. Where was she going?</p><p>His concentration breaks as Cassian calls to him gently. Azriel knows without needing to turn his head that his brother is pointing to the sky before them. A bank of thunderclouds is gathering at the far edge of the forest, playing along the craggy steppes. Even from here, he can hear the low roil of it, feel the prickle of lightning across the chest-plate of his armor. A muttered curse and they both begin to descend. They’ll have to follow her on foot from here.</p><p>A crash of lightning to their left has his teeth singing and his shadows scattering. The rumble of thunder follows almost immediately, joined by Cassian’s joyful laugh. Even the beginnings of torrential rain don’t dampen his joy. Azriel can’t help the softening of his mouth as he looks to his brother. <em>Fool, </em>he thinks, but it’s far softer than he’s willing to admit.</p><p>Another flash and rumble have him feeling empty. <em>Something is missing. </em>He casts out with his senses, checking first his person and then Cassian’s. Nothing amiss. Cassian’s smile drops as he notices the way Azriel’s spine tenses and his eyes begin to cast around him. Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.</p><p>The shadows Azriel had twined with the female’s are gone. Not scattered, not sleeping, not far away. Gone. This is quickly and quietly relayed to Cassian. Without another word, they set off at a trot in the last place his shadows had been.</p><p>**</p><p>They find a note pinned by a knife to a tree on the edge of a small clearing. This was the last place he’d tracked his shadows, but for all the darkness and incandescent flashes of lightning, none of the shadowy places in the clearing are his. The wavy bladed knife is electrum, worked to a point so sharp the bark beneath it seems unmarked. The hilt is wrapped with dark green leather, the pommel carved with a snarling mass of runes that set Azriel’s teeth on edge. Cassian lets out a whistle as he sees it, before gathering a handkerchief and plucking it delicately out of the tree. The letter falls serenely before Azriel grabs it.</p><p>“You shouldn’t have grabbed it. Might be enchanted.” Azriel chides his brother, attention half on the piece of vellum in his hand.</p><p>Cassian waves him off dismissively, carefully using the kerchief to turn the blade over. More runes down the blade of it. “What’s the writing? It looks old. Familiar.”</p><p>Azriel can’t help the scowl that warps his features. <em>Useless, stupid, ignorant.</em> His shadows whisper around his neck, but he brushes them away with a negligent hand. He looks down at the letter. It’s fine vellum and he can see the faintest edges of underwriting beneath the bold scrawl.</p><p>
  <em>I seek audience with the High Lord in a fortnight’s time, at dusk. We will meet here. </em>
</p><p>Another flash of lightning, a breath of ozone, and Azriel winnows them back to Velaris.</p><p>**</p><p>Mor refuses to let both Rhys <em>and</em> Feyre go, for all of Feyre’s protests. Amren only looks on with amusement bubbling behind a smirk. She’s been playing with the dagger they’d found, using it now to clean her nails. It’s lack of any enchantment had made her scoff when it had been presented to the Inner Circle.</p><p>“You can’t <em>both</em> go. If it’s a trap, you’ll both be in danger.” Mor raises a hand to quell Feyre’s half-formulated objection, brown eyes ablaze. “For all your power, we know <em>nothing</em> about these people. <em>No one </em>knows what they <em>are</em>. If both High Lord and Lady are caught, it will spell danger for us all. It will <em>ruin</em> peace talks, and you know it.” She turns to Azriel with a pleading look.</p><p>Azriel’s voice is soft. “She’s right. We must keep you safe. Helion expects to meet with one, or both, of you to discuss reparations and land distribution next month.” Feyre wilts at that, before turning to Rhys. He merely shrugs, having said nary a word since reading the letter. He had stood near the open window of the House of the Wind, turning the vellum this way and that.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Feyre darling. He’s right.” She wilts even further at Rhys’ words, before setting her spine and turning to face Azriel in full.</p><p>“Check everything. Keep him safe.” There is a command in Feyre’s voice, and he feels the thrum of her power dance across the back of his neck. She rarely taps into the authority of her post, but the fear has her willing to do so. He bites back the snarl building in his chest – an order like that, as if he <em>wouldn’t</em> keep his <em>High Lord</em> <strong><em>safe</em></strong>.</p><p>“Of course, My Lady.”</p><p>Rhys places a delicate hand on the small of her back, smiling down at her with only the faintest hint of rebuke in his tone as he reminds her that “Azriel has been my spymaster for centuries. He knows what he’s doing.”</p><p>Azriel dismisses Feyre’s start at an apology with a smile.</p><p>“What do you make of the underwriting?” Mor, attentive as ever, cuts in. Azriel ignores the look she sends him, ignores the relief that floods through him at her steering the conversation away from Feyre’s apology.</p><p>“They’re blueprints. Scraped twice, two different schematics on it. As good a job as our scribes could have done, for all their oat bran and magic. The middle layer looks to be a hand brace, the other is a sketch of wings.” Rhys is examining the vellum more closely, listening as Azriel speaks. “We think Peregryn wings, from the structure, and I have agents examining any records from Thesan’s library.”</p><p>“Fuck.” Feyre sits heavily on a chair as she considers this new bit of information. “So they’re Dawn Court? How did they get into the Steppes? <em>Why</em> would they get into the Steppes?”</p><p>Azriel shakes his head, but Rhys beats him to the punch. “We can’t assume they’re part of <em>any</em> court. They could be from anywhere.” Rhys reaches towards his Mate, tracing a palm over her hair. “We need to find out as much as we can, and it seems the only way to do that is to meet them.”</p><p>“It’s Old Illyrian.” Amren’s voice is sharp. The knife is now resting blithely in an upturned palm. She settles it more comfortably in her grip, pointing it towards Rhys. “You’re out of practice.” Her gaze is reproachful as she looks over the three Illyrians. Cassian swears, beginning to pace. Azriel feels the shame light up his cheeks.</p><p>At Mor and Feyre’s questioning glances, Rhys cuts in. “It’s mostly long dead, but some camps still keep old records. It was used in old magic, used to cow the first Siphons, before they got better at figuring out how to attune themselves to the stones.”</p><p>“Fuck.” Cassian speaks for them all as he runs a hand through his hair. Azriel only hums his assent.</p><p>“Meaning what?” Mor’s voice is cautious as she looks between them.</p><p>“It means that we’re dealing with the camps who rebelled. The camps who refuse to bend the knee.” Rhys’ voice is cold as he stares at Azriel. “Check the clearing for traps. I want your best agents to comb through that village. You’ll be with me.”</p><p>**</p><p>The clearing is bereft of anything except an exceptionally active colony of ants in the north corner. The village, too, is similarly uninteresting. Even Lugh, for all his eye and illicit substances, is easily categorized as a non-issue. The interrogation had gone smoothly, with Azriel standing by to let his agent work.</p><p>Lugh had lost the eye in an accident – a brawl had broken out in a tavern nearby after the younger sons of two local families had insulted each other. Lugh had tried to intervene and been stabbed in the process. He’d never known who exactly had been responsible. Two months later, a letter had been pinned to his desk, promising new sight. Lugh showed them the letter, kept in a tattered oak box with a smattering of belongings, and the letter contained merely that – the hint of a new eye, a time, and a place two klicks away from the clearing where the female had disappeared. No payment had been asked for. No debts to trigger such an exchange. He’d gone to the location, curious, and after a flash of light, had woken up with a new eye, none the wiser to how he had spent the last few hours.</p><p>Rhys spends the days leading up to the meeting more restless than ever. Another meeting with warlords had revealed nothing of great worth. The Old Illyrian on the knife’s blade could be translated readily enough, for all that this particular use was an unfamiliar one – they were inscriptions to ensure stillness and calm. Uncommon inscription for a blade. The quasi-scholars attached to the camps had puzzled over it before dismissing it as a novelty – mayhap one of their young smiths had been practicing their script. Some of the older warriors still inscribed their blades with runes for sharpness, precision, force, but none such as the ones curling along the spine of the wavy blade.</p><p>Another mystery, then.</p><p>Azriel, too, spends his days worrying and turning over possibilities. He has spies installed throughout the steppes, forming a four-kilometer radius around the clearing. The village is crawling with his agents and his shadows. His blades and the talons atop his wings have been sharpened and polished until they gleam, and still he cannot stop the tugging of anticipation at his gut.</p><p>He and Rhys spend the night before the meeting going over plans. They’ll winnow in moments before dusk. There are agents in the forest within a stone’s throw, more circling overhead, and Cerridwen to drift in the shadows at the edges of the clearing. Feyre joins them, fretting and asking Azriel to repeat security plans until Rhys stops her. Azriel doesn’t look away from the maps on the table until they’ve left, pointedly ignoring the hand Rhys squeezes his shoulder with. Another hour spent going over plans before he too gives up and abandons worry for rest.</p><p>Uncomfortable sleep finds him. More dreams, as indistinct and unsettling as ever. A silhouetted female flickers and dances away at the edges of his vision, always disappearing in a whisper of shadows and a flash of white gold. A clearing, too, but different than the one that awaits him. He comes to with a jerk and a muttered curse.</p><p>Rhys, from the uncharacteristic sharpness of his movements, had slept about as well as he had. More reviewing of plans, sharpening of swords and talons, polishing of armor.</p><p>The day blooms warm in Velaris. Azriel can only hope for similar weather at the base of the steppes. He consults with his agents, who report that they are all in place, and that, while colder, the day is still temperate.</p><p>It’s time.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Air and Angels</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee,<br/>Before I knew thy face or name;<br/>So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame<br/>Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be;<br/>         Still when, to where thou wert, I came,<br/>Some lovely glorious nothing I did see. <br/>-"Air and Angels," John Donne</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Far out, beyond the reach of the cities scattered in the Night Court, sundown is more tangible than one would expect. Dusk comes quickly upon the steppes. The sky goes gold and red for a few breaths before the shadows lengthen and stretch to cover the ground.</p><p>Tonight, the tension sits a little bit higher, closer to the throat. Unease settles in close, huddled up next to fires, eager to make the acquaintance of its bedfellows. Azriel’s agents report to him in whispers that the townsfolk are all inside, behind thresholds. While the town is hardly abuzz with activity come sundown, even the meager but typically boisterous taverns are demure. Citizens keep their heads in tankards, voices barely raised above the crackle of fires that grace every hearth, avoiding those whom they had riposted and joked with the night before. Rhys only frowns when Azriel reports this, loosening his shoulders with a careful roll.</p><p>Rhys winnows them in, a moment before dusk officially claims the sky.</p><p>The clearing is empty, save a single torch flickering between shades of green and gold. At their arrival, there is a brief pause in the chorus of insect and animal life from the forest around them. Azriel feels his neck tense, forces relaxation into his muscles, and shifts shadows to cover the back of his palms. Neither Rhys nor Azriel move, and the crickets haltingly begin to sing once again. Tendrils of darkness reach out into the edges of the forest clearing, where they exist beyond the glow of the torch’s flame. After a look to Azriel, Rhys shrugs, strolling into the center of the clearing.</p><p>“I’m here. Seems rude of you to keep your High Lord waiting.” His voice is pitched to carry. A falcon screeches from a low branch across the clearing, directly to their left. Azriel’s shoulder twitches.</p><p>“I have no High Lord.” She steps out of shadows to their right, hands glinting in the firelight. Gone is the green shift of their last meeting, replaced instead by black fighting leathers tattooed with ink that reflects strangely in the fire. No blades. Azriel gets a cursory glance, eyes tracking the shadows on his hands and arms. She turns to Rhys. “Call off your dogs. They’ll find no purchase here, and they’re scaring away the animals.”</p><p>At Rhys’ raised eyebrow, she raises one of her own, waving a hand before her, electrum-dipped finger pausing for a breath in the direction of each and every one of Azriel’s agents. His stomach drops.</p><p>Rhys only smiles. “They’re just there to ensure our conversation stays friendly.” The grip on his power loosens – an oppressive brush that coils around the base of Azriel’s spine and sets the forest around them into absolute silence.  </p><p>Azriel’s grip on his shadows shatters as she steps into the firelight and stares at him. Breath and darkness rush from him as their eyes meet. This is a scene he’s relived far too often in his sleep. A frantic rush of memories, now, dull edges made sharp with recognition. He knows her, understands the warning woven into the weft of his dreams. He barely notices the way her jaw clenches or the way she steps away from him, off-balance.</p><p>“This is Azriel.” Rhys’ voice is dark honey as he cuts in, capturing the female’s attention once more. A chill traces delicate fingertips over his wings as her eyes leave his.</p><p>Barely a hiccup in her speech. “A name for a face, good. Where’s the brawny one?”</p><p>“Back home. Do you have a name, then?” Rhys has moved to flank her, forcing her between the two males. Azriel carefully ignores the way her laugh sets his skin alight, focusing instead on recalling his shadows to him. A breeze picks up, ruffling hair set in a loosely coiled braid at the back of her neck. He can smell her, acrid metal and forge smoke undercut with tomato leaf. His pulse races, and his control over shadow slips once more, darkness flaring out to lick at his shins.</p><p>“I do indeed, High Lord. Your men have been asking about my work. Why?” A shift of her feet to shoulders width apart, one angled behind the other, knees carefully bent as she tracks Rhys’ movements.</p><p>“We couldn’t help but notice the splash you’ve been making. Illyrian females with clipped wings are flying again – it’s within our interest.” More honey in his tone, now, and a few steps closer.</p><p>A hum to match the sardonic tilt of her lips. “Seems to be that you didn’t care much about clipping, with the way your war camps have been carrying on. Forty-three since the war ended.” A tilt of her head as Rhys flinches. “You didn’t know? Pity. I suppose it’s hard, being newly Mated.” The corner of her mouth raises higher as her eyes flick to Azriel before settling.</p><p><em>Forty-three. Forty. Three. </em>There is bile at the back of his throat, shadows roiling madly around his feet. <em>How did we miss this? How did </em>I <em>miss this? How does </em>she<em> know?</em></p><p>“Those camps will be punished.” The steel in Rhys’ voice is unmistakable. Azriel feels the shift in power, notes the way Rhys’ left shoulder tenses. Another promise, writ in skin.</p><p>“Of course.” The sardonic smile never fades.</p><p>“And you? What is your role, then, in all of this?”</p><p>“I fix your mistake, Rhysand.” The blandness in her tone undercuts the scathing and scornful look she levels his way.</p><p>Azriel can’t help the question that bubbles up from the pit of his stomach. “How?”</p><p>She only smiles, a gentle wave of her hand showcasing the electrum snaking across her fingers and palm. “Easily enough. And in no way that needs concern you or your court. We have trouble enough, without your presence alerting the camps to our work.”</p><p>Azriel’s heart drops as she turns to walk back into the edge of the clearing. She means to leave. Another question, unbidden. “And if we want to help?”</p><p>She slows, frowns in bemusement over her shoulder as she stares at him. His heart jolts back into his throat, half-remembering another dream, one with a glance thrown over a bare shoulder. “You’ve already done enough, Illyrian. Stop asking questions.”</p><p>“Your hands. What happened to them?” He can’t stop himself, can barely keep from reaching out to touch her. His shadows dance wildly at his feet, testing their bonds and pushing closer to her, desperately clawing at the scant meters separating them.</p><p>She freezes, then. Spins to face him fully, spine and mouth and eyes and shoulders locked tight. A half-step backwards, away from him. He goes cold, wings drawing further back.</p><p>“We want to help. Please. Let us help.” He’s practically begging, can feel the confusion and concern in Rhys’ gaze burning the side of his face. All he wants is to keep her close, keep her talking, keep her <em>here</em>. She needs to stay, <em>stay close. </em></p><p>Her eyes search his face. She seems to thaw, spine unlocking and shoulders slumping minutely. A ragged sigh escapes her. Hope blooms bright and cloying on his tongue. A shuffling half-step in her direction, his right hand reaching out to her unbidden.</p><p>“It’s not my decision to make. But I will pass along your request.” And with that, she steps to the edge of the clearing and vanishes into darkness. He takes a step towards her, two, arm extending fully now, before his shadows report that she winnows away – Cerridwen melts out of the treeline to report the same. She’s gone.</p><p>Rhys swears resolutely under his breath, voice black with rage, power pulsing out of him and pushing against Azriel’s chest before ordering a sweep of the forest. Cerridwen looks to Azriel for a scant second, enough time for him to force his chin down, to nod, before melting back into shadow.</p><p>His High Lord rounds on him with a snarl, but Azriel is frozen. Another snarl, before Rhys stalks towards the torch. Its light flickers momentarily under the weight of his power before shifting to simple orange flame. It’s simple wicker and twine, no inscriptions, no electrum. Azriel can’t move, can barely take breath, feet resolutely refusing to move.</p><p>Cerridwen returns after a few minutes. The forest is empty. More swearing, before Rhys turns back to Azriel, who remains mute, and winnows them back to Velaris.</p><p>They arrive in a flash, clattering heavily to the floor of the conference room designated to discuss the events of the night. There are maps scattered on the table, a large topographic rendering of the steppes pinned to the wall and marked with bright flags. The remnants of half-eaten foods piled next to empty sheafs of paper and uncorked bottles of ink.</p><p>Azriel is still stuck in limbo, can’t move his feet, doesn’t want to admit the chaos bellowing inside of him.</p><p>Rhys hardly takes notice of Feyre as she stands from her seat next to Cassian and walks over to them, though Rhys’ hand seeks out the small of her back readily enough when she gets within reach. The rest of the Inner Circle are waiting close by. Cassian himself is half-out of his chair, Mor not far behind Feyre.</p><p>“What the fuck was that, Azriel?” Rhys’s voice is harder than he’s heard it since the war, and the room flinches. Even Amren raises an eyebrow from her spot.</p><p>Azriel only swallows. He looks to Rhys, and then deliberately, to Feyre.</p><p>Rhys’ anger crumbles in the face of comprehension. “You’re sure?”</p><p>A whisper. “<em>Yes</em>.”</p><p>The dam breaks. Azriel shatters.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Break of Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Why should we rise because 'tis light?<br/>Did we lie down because 'twas night?<br/>Love, which in despite of darkness brought us hither,<br/>Should in despite of light keep us together.<br/>-"Break of Day," John Donne</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the hour before dusk, a sharp scent permeates through the makeshift camp they have set up at the base of the steppes – something sharply undefined and unsettling in the absence it leaves. It sets the underbrush to quiet, creating empty spaces where it can flex sharp claws against living beings. Chirped calls and careful colloquiums between cicadas and critters halt in the face of the overwhelming and ever-growing emptiness.</p><p>Conversations huddled around whetstones and tattooed and inscribed leather are lulled into complacency, easily shoved aside in favour of whatever new creation is being birthed in the forge. The steady heartbeat of a hammer and wheeze of bellows that had provided the tempo for camp life all day has faded in the face of this scent and accompanying silence.</p><p>Avel and Nerin, the newest to join the group, wings still buckling under the weight of old scars, open their mouths to ask the cause, but are shushed with a look from Pyrrha. She shakes her head once, a motion all at once too loud and not sharp enough for the silence that stretches languidly in the camp. <em>Later, </em>her eyes seem to promise, but even this is hard to hear over the oppressive absence.</p><p>Nerin only frowns, scratching idly at her knee through a hole in the roughshod black trousers she wears. The smell around the camp only grows more oppressive, tickling at the back of her throat. The scar at the base of her wings begins to itch, and she shifts uncomfortably. Pyrrha, ever-observant, levels a knowing smile her way. The itch becomes stronger, spreading irritating spines under the membrane of her wings, across the connected muscles and dancing its way to the clawed tips of her wings. Nerin can’t help the irritated huff that escapes her. Pyrrha’s smile only grows larger in response, a delighted and fierce pride shining in her eyes. Avel gaze flicks between them, confusion plain on her face.</p><p>The silence shatters with a triumphant yell from the forge. Sounds rush back into the underbrush and the camp, and Pyrrha begins to laugh, her joy bubbling up from the pit of her stomach to wrap warmly around Nerin.</p><p>“You’d best go to the forge, Nerin.” Pyrrha’s voice is full to bursting with pride. Avel’s jaw drops, realization painting jealousy over her skin. The realization dawns more slowly in Nerin, whose wings have not stopped itching. Her throat tightens, nerves wrapping tight around her larynx.</p><p>“Are you sure?” Her voice sounds too loud to her own ears.</p><p>“Aren’t you?” Pyrrha looks at Avel, reassuring her: “Don’t worry, your turn will come soon.”</p><p>Nerin rises, loose-kneed, wings pulled tight to alleviate the itch beginning to press on her spine. She walks doe-legged to the forge, barely able to hear the called congratulations pouring out from opened tents that line the path. It seems the others have caught on to what is happening today, and their enthusiasm only augments her anxiousness. <em>It’s time. </em></p><p>The forge is hot, still reeking of absence. The Smith, Iria, greets her with a smile that catches the frayed strands of joy building inside of Nerin, catalyzing them and transforming them into an effervescent glee.</p><p>“It’s time, Nerin.” A web of pale gold, reflecting oddly in the residual light of the forge fire, is draped across Iria’s heavy leather gloves. Nerin opens her mouth, words trapped under her tongue, before shaking her head clear and turning around.</p><p>Her breath catches, the warm touch of metal across her back begins to burn, the itch growing into something stronger. Her spine arches, wings extending sharply as lightning skitters across them. Consciousness flickers, and she stumbles into Iria’s expectant arms. Moments pass, and sensation fades. Her wings feel like an exposed nerve for two, three, four, five heartbeats, before that begins to dampen, returning to normal. A delicate, cool hand presses against her forehead before a glass of water is pressed to her lips. She drinks greedily, blushing at Iria’s smile. The scent of tomato leaf begins to filter through the fading smell of emptiness. </p><p>A roar rises from the camp, bulldozing its way into the forge. Iria only huffs out a pleased breath, eyes sparkling as she helps steady Nerin.</p><p>“Try them, before they all rush in here to see you.” Iria’s voice is soft as she backs away.</p><p>A strain across her back, then, and a rush of air that makes the forge-flame leap. Shoulders aching, back stiff, she moves her wings once more, and Nerin laughs delightedly. The taste of wind and unending flight fills her mouth, singeing tastebuds.</p><p>Entering in to the forge, the rest of the camp at her heels, Pyrrha claps a firm hand on her shoulder before pulling her in for a hug. The other members of the camp, Avel included, crowd her, pressing into her, grounding her between them.</p><p>“Your lessons will start tomorrow.” Sybil is the first to pull away, silencing Nerin’s protests with a raised hand. “It’s too late to start them today. You start tomorrow, at dawn.”</p><p>They all begin to filter out of the forge, pulling Nerin with them. Iria follows behind, offering only an exhausted smile in response to Nerin’s unending stream of thanks.</p><p> </p><p>**</p><p> </p><p>In Azriel’s waking hours, the flinch, the step back, the hollow jolt of her winnowing away all replay themselves in dizzying fractals, a horrifying kaleidoscope of regret that leaves him nauseous. But his dreams? His dreams shine bright and effervescent. A delicate, crooked smile, and a press of lips to the base of his neck. Fingers trace lines down his wings, leaving him gasping below her. Stars above them, the sound of crickets, the smell of dusk in his nose and her voice pressing softly into his ears, praise leaving him dizzy and unable to do more than clumsily grab at her waist. A flash of light and the world shifts from under him. Azriel sees nets of electrum, the flash of clipping scars glowing gold under flickering light. He wakes with the smell of tomato leaf in his nose.</p><p>The web of agents he has carefully spun over the small northern village chafe at his absence, missives read but unanswered. No more absences from the camps, no more crashes into clusters of camphor. They have all gone silent.</p><p>Elain forces him out into the sunshine of her garden, doe eyes soft as they trace the slouch in his shoulders. She talks softly, detailing her plans for raised beds and how she needs to deal with an infestation of aphids. She remains unbowed when he flinches away from the cluster of tomato plants in the sunniest corner of the garden. When he crushes a tomato leaf under his thumb, worrying it into a pungent paste, she acknowledges it only with a confused smile and the offer to take a plant home with him. He rejects the offer, fleeing back to his home.</p><p>One appears on his doorstep the next day, without a note.</p><p>When Feyre appears that afternoon, he turns her away. Rhys, too, is rejected. Cassian and Mor send bottles of wine along with offers to spar or talk or go dancing, as needed. Even Lucien leaves a tome of poetry on his doorstep.</p><p>Nesta does not knock. She shoves his door open, ignoring his flinch and the incensed tone of his voice as he demands an explanation. She shoves past him, rolling her eyes at the tomato plant sitting on the mantle of his living room.</p><p>“Amren told me what happened. Stop moping, you can’t fight it anyway. Makes it worse – makes it hurt more.” Her tone is unexpectedly gentle. Azriel freezes, hand halfway to his temple. She looks pointedly at the wall beside him, before telling him, “she’ll make her way to you. She feels it too. And then you’ll be stuck with her.” A disgusted but fond crinkle of her nose accompany the last. “Don’t lose hope.”</p><p> With that, she turns on her heel and breezes out of his house. Azriel can only look after her, mouth agape.</p>
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